An ode to you, the 365th day of the year.

First.
Au Revoir 2013.
2014, here I am saying a heartfelt hi to you.

New year's eve seems like
a perfect time to display some
narcissistic love:)

Largely, across the globe, all over the universe, you are worshipped, celebrated and looked up to. You are a steady diet of hundreds of songs, thousands of sitcom episodes, gazillions of movies. Millions of bloggers publish a post on you. You are the reason people, dress up, get high, loose their lives, fill their hearts with 'resolutions'. Earlier this time of the year, you were welcomed expectedly, with open arms like a pregnant mother awaiting to celebrate the delivery of the cocoon that harvested in her womb for 9 months and just like that, soon you too like a grown up child who is all set to face the wrath and thunder of the world, bid all of us goodbye.You fill the eyes of people with hope, urgency and a kind of demand that is hard to brush off easily. Millions, push their sorrows away and let a brave grin dance on their face, because they consider you legendary, something that needs to be welcomed with extraordinary affection and warmth. For some you were like a breath of fresh air, giving them immense happiness, love and satisfaction and for some you were like the hopeless hurricane that refuses to leave the grounds of earth inspite of everyone's earnest payers. You are optimism. You are pessimism. You are nostalgia. You are melancholy.You are heaps and tonnes of shady adjectives all rolled into one. Hard to believe that you will leave all of us in a lurch today. You will be buried in that coffin whose tombstone some might feel like visiting and some might be not.
To me, you weren't the one who would be worth to cherish for. The amount of percentage of good was humongously low than bad. But you gave me some people, some wonderful souls whom I'd like to be in touch with for eternity. You gave me this unexplained kind of power that I never thought I even possess. I've grown 'that-little-bit-more'. So, for that I will thank you. With bottom base corner of my heart, I am bidding you Sayonara, forgetting the bad as an unpleasant memory and the good as a beautiful one.
2014, is the turning point of my life. This is where my quest begins, where it all starts, this is where I am supposed to say, "Bring it on, baby!"
And I am beginning it with these two beauties. The loves of my life.

I wish I could make this man my
soulmate. Well he is, in my dreams. His presence is mystical.
Murakami. You are a god. To me, atleast.

Come on!
Who on earth doesn't like a nirvana-full
bite of my favorite red velvet?

A happy and an eventful new year to all the people who read this blog.

Much Love,
R.


p.s- 2014, be nice to me, please?

So much me.

“What are you going to do with your life?" In one way or another it seemed that people had been asking her this forever; teachers, her parents, friends at three in the morning, but the question had never seemed this pressing and still she was no nearer an answer... "Live each day as if it's your last', that was the conventional advice, but really, who had the energy for that? What if it rained or you felt a bit glandy? It just wasn't practical. Better by far to be good and courageous and bold and to make difference. Not change the world exactly, but the bit around you. Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved, if you ever get the chance.” 

- David Nicholls, One day.

These past couple of months have been like a whiplash for me. Introspections, Intospections, Introspections. (Double that) There was a mammoth of turmoil that had been infesting on my heart, sucking up all the flavours, gulping it down with immense satisfaction. More than that, when I was questioned by my friends that why do I look so spooked these days, I just shrugged and said, "feeling..umm..a bit empty".

I am 17, I am that stage of my life where with each step I am writing the destiny that lies ahead of me. And to tell you the truth I am clueless trying to figure everything and everyone out. Every day has something different to offer, every one changes overnight. I miss so many things right now. Like so so so many things. Growing up sucks. I miss Rocky- my cheeky 'elder-brother' of a dog. He would've have been 18 this year, if he was here; fooling around with me. I miss my Grandad. What a man!
Liberal, funny, kind, loving.
Probably he's the only person who would set everything alright with giving me just the required piece of advice. He knew me inside out. He's the one who inculcated in me, the habits of reading and writing as a kid. By the time I had reached class 5, I had already taken a liking towards Robert Frost and Khalil Gibran, while children my age were busy toying around with pokemon (don't blame them though; always been a bit of a weirdo) And the best part with him was that he was always eager to learn everything new. I still remember, teaching him how to eat wontons. He was one cool man.
Won't talk about him much. Thinking that he's not with me anymore saddens the misery out of me. But, I sure as hell know, that he's watching over me from his place in Orion, with a Sidney Sheldon book in his hand. And he were alive right now, we both would probably be hotly debating about India's take on homosexuality. Capital offence? seriously?
Miss you, Dadu. A lot.
I had my exams recently, and I spent much of November locked up in my room, only coming out by Dad's-"Time for Lunch, beta" and Mom's- "Are you alive, in there?" Saying books and music are helping me going through these weird phases lately, is an understatement. They help me miraculously. Anoushka shankar, lana del rey, John Mayer, Broken bells, Ynidi halda, lots of books and sleep have been amazingly helpful.
God, I am sounding like a person who's been asked to join the Al-Qaeda and can't make up her mind!
Nevermind. I know this post is nothing but a summing up of what's been happening all this while. And I am here to assure you, that I'll have a few post's of fiction coming right up. This was just a little part of me screaming out a bit of self-assurance that- I am going to be just fine:)

Snowflakes in summer.

She walked with a stupor that no one else could pull off.                

Her eyes whispering the thoughts of fading immortality.                      

Arms loose with burden of the scanty flesh.

The bitter reason behind those unpainted nails.

Yes, she spoke a million untold stories.

She walked with a stupor that no one else could pull off.

A jute bag that hung lightly on those incumbent shoulders.

She didn't complain though.

Somehow she perceived the brunt as pleasure.

Yes, she spoke a million untold stories.

She walked with a stupor that no one else could pull off.

Her dampened hair beating the fury of Medusa's.

A voice with a glint of sharpness.

That short-lived sharpness plunging into the bed of seas.

Yes, she spoke a million untold stories.

She walked with a stupor that no one else could pull off.
Call her Alice, Call her Athena.
Paint her crimson, drench her in black.
Because she believes that no colors could be put in the box called 'favorites'.
Each had their poise, each infused with a breath of life.
Yes, she spoke a million untold stories.

She walked with stupor that no one else could pull off.
Her shaggy coat, her vivid smile.
Her auburn face, her wretched cries.
Her brilliant fingers, her futile tries.
She would probably take a subway or board a bus.
Taking the window seat, her eyes gazing outside.
And there she is, amidst the herd.
Her mind brewing a chain of thoughts.
Remember?
She told a million untold stories?

p.s- the poem is open-ended.
p.p.s- No, this blog is not dying a natural death.
p.p.p.s- I'll post more often.
Okay Ta-ta & good night!:)

We almost had it all.

And I heard Rolling in the deep, AGAIN! god! Adlele! everytime I hear her singing, a shiver runs down my spine. She makes everything overwhelming. The lyrics just make too much sense these days.

That tall sharpened pencil that keeps stumbling and rolling on your study table, the one that you put behind your ears or use it to keep your hair tightly wrapped around in a bun, carelessly slide it in your lips and drift away to a whirlwind of thoughts, if's & buts and possibilities.
That tip, that very tip. It's filled with so much power.
We see our dreams, our future, who we want to be right with our eyes wide opened. We live to see. See to live. Our aims, aspirations, goals. We want them bad. We want them soon. We want them now. But however we end up convincing our nerve cells to give it some time, wait for it and then bask in the after glory when it has been achieved. Without thinking we hatch a conspiracy about our future, we want them filled with every kind of object, person, situation, or melo-drama. Yeah, we become greedy, selfish and demanding. We become everything that we shouldn't.

And then all of a sudden, that tall pencil rolls by, falls down and you're left there. Naked, exposed, vulnerable and incomplete. Your dreams get shattered, your hopes get twisted and lips stop to twitch.
You pick the broken lead, take a good long glance at it. Clasp them within your fingers and throw it away with a heavy heart. As if those dreams crashed right at that precise moment when the tip touched the ground. And you're left there all alone, with your dreams to mend and hearts to look after. You look away at another direction, take a deep breath while closing your eyes, turn your head around and there, you're left murmuring, - Almost had it all.

Apologies.

Holaaa!

I know, I know It'' been a LONG time that something was posted up here. Partly because of being busy with school, partly because of some bizzare theories that keeps humming in my mind and partly because I am a nutcase. Well, life's been good this far. Mornings are pleasant, with friends by your side, you are bound with strings of laughter and memories. Afternoons go bland and poetic. Nights, well nights, I find intriguing and still trying to figure what it wants for me. I completed reading four books, 'Far from the maddening crowd'- Thomas Hardy ( It's a Hardy, man! what more can I say?), 'Six yards of silk'- Mallika Krishnamoorthy( plain storyline with beautiful and vivid descriptions), 'One Day'-David Nicholls( Delight for the romantic idiots), 'Sons & Lovers'- D.H Lawrence ( Hard to believe.). I've been doing my portfolio and there are couple of write-ups in them that I am particularly fond of. Also, there's Psychology. A period where I marry unicorns with pheonix'es. Where I think about dating a cocker-spaniel, give creepy looks to my equally creepy chapati-faced teacher, where my imagination meets the wilderness of the amazons. And my mind wanders off. Sometimes these fantasies keep going on and sometimes I am productive and write poetry and stories.

So, that's what I am posting right now. A story that I wrote a couple of classes back.

Here it goes.

                                                     

     

                                                                 ~July Despised~

Maya sat up from the rocking chair. Not her's. Her Grandad's. A beautiful rosewood piece whose armrests had traces of Madhubani paintings engraved on it. Her ears finding solace in the rich, velvety-soft voices of Agnetha and Anni singing Mamma Mia. 'The antonyms of life!' she thought and chuckled to herself. The black-rimmed spectacles with high-powered bifocal lenses were still kept on the study, without any hindrance. And her Grandpa's room still smelled of him. A stale stench of sandalwood and furniture, which she didn't find appealing anymore. She walked up to change the 'abba' vinyl playing in the radiogram. But instead she just stopped, right in the middle. Her white face which seemed like a corpse now. And in that pale yellow room with now muted lights, she imagined her Bhilai man dancing with her. Whose presence still lingered in their old little house. 

       It was an astonishing discovery to find him pale, like that. His cheeks, had lost their glow and grace. He sat there motionless still fast asleep in his beloved rocking chair. Eyes closed with spectacles still covering them, and a copy of 'The Godfather' tightly clutched around his pot-bellied tummy. It was Maya, who found him like that. Not her parents."Dadu, get up It's getting late. I've told you earlier too, right? you HAVE to STOP reading after midnight. Get Up!" she yelled, rolling up the curtains, opening the windows. 

But he didn't get up. His last breath was ensnared within that four-walled maze.

He had died. 

And took away with him a piece of Maya's heart, which she was desperately trying to find. 

   And there she was standing right in the middle of her Dadu's room. Trying to reason with herself.

Now there'd be no one who would take her hand right into his and calm her down. No one, with whom she could debate Frost and Wordsworth with. No one would gaze into her eyes and story-tell her. Now, who would ask her to go Shimla just because that was a place that helped him get through tough times and he believed, that it would cure her Granddaughter's problems too. There was no one now, with whom she could talk about the beauty of chinese food. He won't see her off to college nor would he smile, his deep-dimpled smile. He won't give her talks about the Frenchmen and Jacobian's nor would he sigh and boast about his daily meetings with his friends- the chain-smokers of the Calcutta Coffee House. There won't be a prickly hand wrapped around her's when she walked on her terrace, spotting the constellations. She had to do that all by herself now. 

She was alone. 

   A few months after July, she could hardly talk. Let alone eat and sleep. That'd take up all her energy. She just sat on the bamboo 'jhula'  hugging her Gran's spectacles. It seemed as if, her body got accustomed it. To not eating or drinking much. Grapes and water was the only thing she consumed. Her collar bones tearing apart her skin, her shoulder blades now seemed as bird's wings flapping vigourously whenever she moved her limbs. And her cheek had sunken. She had cut her short right at the day of the funeral. And buried them in their garden and planted a Neem sapling on it. 

She did that for her Bhilai man. Her Grandpa. Her cherished pal.

  And as these thoughts kept flushing her mind right in the middle of her buddy's room. She walked closer towards the oddly-coloured ochre almirah. Opened it and found a box. A big blue-coloured box. She opened it hurriedly and all of a sudden, her eyes which hadn't been moist for the past 9 months, were stinging with pearl-sized tear drops. The eyes that had forgotten the feel of kohl were suddenly filled with tears which now justified there presence. 

   In that box lay a beautiful, purple-crimson windchime. The same windchime she had lusted for when she last went shopping with him. It had flowers, wines, birds and several other charms embodied on the silver strings. And tiny little bells that made a lovely sound when anyone touched them. "How I wished I had one of those!" she had said with a glint of sadness. Gramps had just smiled and they walked forward, hand in hand. With nothing much to talk about.

    He had bought that for her. Maybe for her birthday. Maybe he just knew, she needed the warmth of his presence and his smell dangling even after he was gone.

   Taking her gift, to her bedroom she hung it right near the window, facing the balcony. And everytime it made a sound, a smile that had abandoned her would return to grace her face. She ran her fingers over her oversized tee, brushed her hair and drifted away thinking that she was not alone after all. Tonight she would hop on to her terrace and talk to the brightest star that shined under the blankets of the thick skies and would quietly whisper, " You're still here. Aren't you?" 

                                                                 ~The end~

                                          (As I sit writing this post, Sia sings 'I go to sleep' to me)

                                                          

For the best men of our lives.

To, my dearest father.


For the man, with a one-dimpled smile.

For the man with a selfless kind of love.

For the strongest and bravest man I know.

For the man who taught me to be courageous and straight-forward.

For the man who'd always take a note of my words and take me seriously.

For the man who'd always have telepathic eye-contact with dogs.

The best'est' butter-chicken and chicken malai tikka cook ever.

The man whom I get my temper from.

The man with the biggest and cleanest heart.

The man who brims with an immense knowledge.

The man who yawns no less than a African lion.

The man who'd watch Bear Grylls eating grilled snakes without blinking his eyes.

A protector. A saviour.


Ah! Dad that's you. Wait! that would be too mainstream.
My Phantom. My Robin. My Tom. My Batman.

Happy Father's Day, Papa.
For everything said and done, you of all the people deserve the best of life.

Much Love,
Nimi.

Dad and Rocky.

                                                                  

Love to you, Zombie:)

Midori. Midori Kobayashi. 
She's a character from Haruki Murakami's ' Norwegian Wood'. She funny, she's pretty. She's outgoing yet she has her own set of hardships. She's quirky and full of life yet within her she keeps on unfolding little mysteries. Yet she's so different.  Yet she's so amazing.

I've got a buddy who resembles a lot like her. So, I've got my own Midori Kobayashi.
It's funny how you meet certain people and they bring out an unexplored side of yours. The part of yourself that still remains a mystery to you. They push in some kind of miraculous strength into your system. They give you that respite that you really need. Seeing their faces fills you with ceaseless laughter.

I like the way the two of us have become. When we walk down the corridors of school intently buried in our conversations that are so different. The talks on the Third world and what according to us are 'Normal' people. It doesn't have to be words always, right? what do friends do? steal glances, throw a shy smile, look deep into one another's eyes and, viola! they get what's going on in each others minds. I still regret teaching her Madonna's- Like a virgin (and C'mon let's get candid,YOU CAN'T SING! & stop with that 'keep bleeding love'! it's depressing!) . Just like any other set of girlfriends we talk about hot guys (Bradley Cooper, for instance!) and how we are Brangelina's long lost daughters. (yeah! we know we are super-creepy but by saying that it gives us a weird sense of self-assurance). The kind of hogger that'd put Joey Tribbiani to shame. And never give away your dabba's to her, I am warning you, people!

And she has the kind of laughter which spreads like an epidemic. Her smile is to-die-for and of course she is blessed with gorgeous raven black hair. But more than anything else, she listens to me with all ears. She is one of the few people who don't twist their words, bend the tone of their voices and believe in giving a straight advises. If I cry over my petty agonies she'll help me get out of it speaking just the right words. I am not one of those people who let people seek through them ( and I don't regard this as a quality, AT ALL). It takes a while for me to let them see through me, but you Y, you're different. I don't recall how we became friends but I'm sure it must've been because of two dirty-minds clinking together like broken glass pieces;)

And I am so proud of her. She knows what pain is. She has seen misery and loss. The way she has coped with her grief and the way she still manages to stifle out a chuckle isn't anybody's cup of tea. Sometimes she has her days. Like every other girl, she faces non-PMS days when she finds every single thing around her annoying and all she wants is to be left alone, with her thoughts fluttering in her mind. She is so strong and worthy. She instilled the value of 'not- giving- a- damn' and giving the world a hard time.

Though she says that nobody will know her completely, that no one will know what keeps on tinkling in her heart, but I think I am coming to know what kind of beautiful soul she is. And I know what I'll discover at the end.

A little piece of advise to you,Y- Stay happy and amazing. Give those jerks 'on-your-face' with your snappy comments and spread the love that resides in your heart for the wonderful ones you meet .
That's it!
And did I ever mention it before? she's my hideous YET adrenaline loving zombie who believes that lifting her legs while walking is too mainstream. A serious sufferer of two left feet, I tell you! ;)

Thanks Midori!
Thank you so much, Y for making my life so brilliant.You have no idea how strong you've made me. Yet you bring out that terrible child in me. With you, conquering the world is gonna be so much fun.

Let's say- "Bring It On", Shall we?

Of oceans and dreams. Surreal dreams.

Stillness of the sky, 
Boldness of the mountains, 
Luminous chirping of the aves,
And then, somewhere between them cuts an ocean.
The plain, placid ocean.....

 Somewhere beneath the endless skies, I find myself a few centimeters away from the ocean waters. I bend closer, and timidly stare at my reflection. It stares back giving a sharp image. The girl with digital wrist-watch, beige shorts and cobalt checkered shirt has her hair cropped up short. Unable to believe at my deceiving retinas, I march on ahead trying to forget my own picture out of my head.  Walking ahead.

A strange kind of happiness engulfs me from the inside, when my naked feet moisten up, step by step by the damp sand grains. The weather is absolutely spectacular. The crimson orange sun giving out just the right amount of rays. I have an urge. So I quench it up by picking up a round pebble and throwing it as far as I can, somewhere in middle of the vast ocean.

Is there a measure to calculate the level of marvelous things we experience? I believe not.
So, after walking a couple of miles I release my tightly clutched black leather-bound folder that was enclosed under my armpits, dig my legs under the sand and sit down. And I start with my cursive in the blank, crisp white sheets. There are times, when our fingers can overpower the quirkiness of our minds. They can go on and on, without even taking any consult of the cerebrum.
How strange...

Everything feels just...perfect! I don't know why, but I continue writing for hours. Because I want to cherish every moment of the time, I am on this flawless land.
Where am I by the way? behind me is the tropical and somewhere very far I see some moss-covered mountain peaks. I am sitting on the sand and overlooking the ocean. Then why can't I make out where on earth am I? this isn't one of the islands I've watched on discovery channel, it is far more beautiful. It's far more beyond and ceaseless.
No sign of life, except the transpiring trees. No life beyond flycatchers soaring up. No life beyond the chirping of the crickets. No life beyond the light waves of the ocean waters. But there is a strange kind of solace. Of unusual peace.

I straighten up and lie down on the sand. My hair laden with the shiny sand grains. The perspiration wets my back but I don't care. This dampness feels amazing. Words fail me. Does, anything get better?
My eyes  marvel the sky. How can there be so many shades of blue up there?
So, I start on with my favorite pastime. Playing with clouds. I see a tiny little man playing with a stick, fire, a saree embodied woman. And well the list goes on and on. The clouds can bring the most creative side of people.

And then just I was lost in  my thoughts, a huge blob of black descend from the west. Replacing the serene blue clouds mixing  with them, giving them a dirty grey color. Thundering starts, lightening occurs. And there comes a heavy downpour.
I pick up my folder, dust myself and run into the canopy of the trees. I descend to the forest.
The dark green forests....

Baaaammm! wait! what the hell was that! why am I rolling on the floor? was that a dream? No, it wasn't! was it?
It's hard to come back to the reality after seeing something that is so intoxicating and surreal. It feels like I am still  stuck somewhere there. I can still smell the salty oceans. I can still feel the numbness of my wandering soul.

They say that we forget dreams within 24 hours. But here is the classic case of  a crazy dreamer whose dreams seek refuge not only in the mind but also in the heart.

Forever and ever.

When you think way too much.

It's 10 am . I stand up straight, my legs dangle out from my bed. My slumber saying, "WHAT?! get back down here! are you out of your mind! don't you want to complete your dream? pull that sheet over your face, and wander off to sleep, will you?"

But somehow, I don't listen to her. She gets over my nerves at times. She has the ability to show every kind of mood. Demeaning. Stringy. Earthy. Vulnerable - are just some of them. I don't know why, insomnia hits the strongest of sound sleepers ( here,I mean me).

Today, however it wasn't insomnia. Maybe I woke up because of the smell of burning eggs coming from my neighbor's house. Or wait? was that Himesh Reshamiya playing next door? can't really figure out. I can't shut my eyelids before 1 am and I longe to open them before 5 am.
So, I got up at two, sipped some water, read veronika decides to die. Thought about it. Thought about it & again thought about it. 9gagged. Ate Jubilee's macaroons. Climbed back to bed. Watched 'A Haunting'. Shrieked a bit. Woke up mum, got a good glare. Switched off  t.v, and tried to sleep.

And then laying in bed I thought about yesterday's swimming class, and gave some self-assurance that I won't drown in the deep. Then about going bald. A great idea! chopping off your hair. Feels impulsive, extreme and  strong. Then about how it would feel to have big bold kohl-smeared eyes (because, my eyes defy all laws of chinkyness). I LOVE big  eyes. They are the best assets anyone can ever possess. Then about Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood. Flipkart's getting me the book by Monday and I am dying to begin it.
South Africa. Afghanistan. Cheetahs. Niagara Falls. Kakori Kebabs(!). Hummed 'I am highway' by Audioslave (wonderful song!). Then  wondered what I would do if ever joined armed forces.(Wicked!). Learn to shoot. Stroke a stallion. Breathe in mogra flowers. Thought what was the last time when tears pricked down my eyes. The way how my tongue tasted saltiness. The last time I smiled at a stranger.

How wonderful it would be if it rained for a couple of days? I could really use some good weather and scream while getting wet. Rain gods? are you listening?

The panacea of my problems.
And then out of nowhere. My eyes started shrinking. Lips pursing. Rhythmic pulse-beats. Then it was just me. Me and  light howling of the cooler.
The room filled with tranquility.  My mind went blank. Bright visuals emerging under my closed eyelids. I let go.
Then came Black. Pure, Unadultrated, Jet Black.
And I dozed off.
Sleep had finally found me. It had embraced me with her gentle hands.

Because some songs are just meant to be!

Songs! They ALWAYS lift up your spirits.  And guess what I bumped onto? 'Don't give up' by Above Envy.   Which is an  absolutely stunning number. You feel like grooving and prancing the moment you hear it. You feel empowered and full of hope. So, do listen to it.

And there's one more. ' You found me' by The Fray which is my all time favorite. I listen to it whenever I switch on my computer. Just can't get over the awesomeness of the lyrics and  the sound of Isaac Slade's voice. Ah! how beautiful!

"For you a thousand times over"

I feel terribly inspired and touched today. With books I have a strange kinship, the couple of bucks you spend buying on them never goes "waste", because every book whether it be exceptionally meaningless or annoyingly extraordinary leave a mark in your brain. They leave stamp imprints upon us. And no matter how much we try, we do process the story again & again. And always, ALWAYS put ourselves in it.

And today, the 13 sunlit day of warm May I completed reading 'The Kite Runner' by Khaled Hosseini. Words fail me.And how beautifully, heart-breaking it was!
I have a habit of reading the first and the last dialogue of any book I read, no matter how much I try not to do it, I eventually end up doing it. It gives me a bizarre sense of satisfaction. With it I try to make my own little story, my own little world. But, here people the the last dialogue "For you a thousand times over" boggled me. How can you think about a line which has such uncanny thoughts linked to it? Can you?

The book began with a jolt. It was gripping since the very beginning. From the moment Amir friends the harelipped Hassan, the moment where Pashtuns and Hazaras forget their differences, the moment where a journey takes a plunge..to darkness, to sorrows, to happiness.
And the first time I completely understood Pauhlo Coehlo's words, "Truth resides where faith is".

I will not say what the story is about (probably because maximum number of people are aware about this story) but what I will say is about the intensity with which Hosseini's characters effected me. Made me think differently about universe. The characters of Amir and Hassan.

Amir, the protagonist. The emotionally detached soul who brings with him the shades of friendship he and Hassan shared. Though he shares a incessant relationship with Baba jan he regards, respects and worships him. He constantly craves for a father's affection which he receives backs in tiny bits and pieces. The guilt he faces all his adult years. And his relationship with his wife, Soraya.
Amir, stands out because he grows out to be a selfless person from a selfish child who once stole the twinkle of someone's eyes. Of  Hassan's.

He's the boy made up of pure white innocence. Whose china-doll face spoke a thousand unspoken desires.
Hassan  is the unchanged character of the story. He has the first-hand knowledge about pain because of his mother Sanaubar, who ran away days later after creating him. He defines the word 'selfless' by all means and  loyalty is his exceptional quality. The creator of the line," For you a thousand times over "

There is one more person, Sohrab. But to know him, you have to read "The Kite Runner"

I was left teary-eyed after the book. I closed my eyes and opened them again with a smile because this book said something to me, " If I ever left you with you guilt, I will come back again...to replace with an act which won't have a speck of misdeed."

Gotta love books, Eh? :)

The impact-filled pages.

The movie adaptation, [L-R] Hassan and Amir.

It's Momma's Day!

"So, you think you can take on this big bad wolf'y' world?"

"Of course I can! I'm smart, I'm worldly, I'm courageous and above all I have a brash side to me."

"Really? I don't think you are saying the truth"

"Do you think I am  hinting any second thoughts?"

"Close your eyes and say that again"
Doing what has been told.
"Now look into my eyes and say that again"
Waiting for a couple of moments. And then a smile, the Julia Roberts one. The one that doesn't know how to stop.
"Well, it is true"
"What is?"
"That mothers are created with some eerie supernatural power. How can you mothers know so well about your children? a crash-course in pyschic abilities, or you people are just born as witches?"
"Well, this tummy you see? that peeks and buldges?"
"Yes?"
"It was meant to know you 9 months ahead of anybody else."
This was the conversation between a mother and daughter. A conversation that every child once experiences. The conversation with a person who knows your guts and intestines, who can catch your lies, who can lighten up your mood, who can win your heart with their warm smiles, who can ease up your pain, the one who comes to your life just once and makes it a beautiful sojourn and that is your MOTHER.

I have this Bloodhound in my life, who can sense and sniff anything ANYTHING what's going on with me, whether I'm in trouble with my unsettling hair, or I'm upset if my latest novel got over. Whether I am super happy or unreasonably sad.
Muma. M.U.M.A.
In my lifespan of 16 years, one thing about which I am absolutely positive about is, that the most used word by me is Muma, in a grumpy & grim voice, in a squeaky mouse-like voice, in a spectacular exclamatory voice or just a plain ol' 'Muma!'  Well, this a small, tiny, minuscule thank you note for you.

Mom, is smart. She's witty, she has one of those amazing soft and slender hands which you can bend and stretch like a rubber band, and has perfect hair. A terrific cook. Who in spite of being shorter than me ( well, just 2 inches...But STILL!) loves to call me "Shortie". Has this rib-tickling sense of humour, and can go extremely bonkers. Well, one thing which she just CANNOT do is sing. She has a shrill, childlike voice and when she screams, then, Oh god! save our neighbours! Trust me, in my house getting some ear-plugs or an i-pod player is the most wise and mind-blowing thing to bring :p So, I certainly am not one of those kids who grew up hearing lullabies with a soft, subtle, melodious voice :)
But above all, when she smiles, the world just becomes better, it becomes some more lovely, as if some miracle has occurred.
I've never seen her stopping. Never ever. Right from my kiddie days, there hasn't been a single day when I haven't seen her packing her dubba, water bottle, corrected notebooks, giving the Kinetic a kick and going off to school. She still continues to do so, though the Kinetic is now replaced by Dio. And she does that without any complains, any remorse, without a speck of guilt. And she has remained my confidante as long as my memory recalls. A person who trusts me implicitly and a guide who has supported my every decision. Well, she hugged a bit tighter whenever I was going to different places for my badminton matches. And quietly said "I miss you" over the phone.

Thank you, Muma for giving me those pep-talks, for making me believe in myself and understanding my judgements. For lending out an ear to my horrible poems, for helping me spell my own name. For hearing my sad stories, and putting up with a daughter who despises shopping. For curing my problems with some kind of magic and teaching me to pat my own back. For laughing loud at all my Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise 'y' dreams. For always forgiving me when my teenage hormones go out of control and my arrogance goes out of hand.  And yes, for being a person I can always lean upon and being patient as ever with a knucklehead like me.

I don't say this very often, but yes when I do, you always stifle a laugh.
Muma, every muscle in my body is madly and unconditionally in love with you. You are and will always be the most awesome, beautiful and number one person in my life.
Love you. :)
A very Happy Mother's Day to all the species.

Muma and me, 1997
(Out of all the pictures I was going through, this was the only  one where  I looked  slightly less embarrassing:p
And the sole reason this picture is going up my blog,  is because Muma likes it and it's her day! )
Happy Mother's Day, Mum.

Grandmotherhood!

Some while back I reminisced after seeing a picture of a person, without whom life wouldn't be so amazing and wonderful.
My Grandmother.
Dida, this one's for you.

                      THE GRANDMA WE LOVE!

 Unusually warm, unbelievably soft,        

They’re blessed with tender hands and silver locks.

With light blue eyes and a ‘to-die-for’ smile,

Plucking away flowers as they march on for miles and miles.

Somehow, they have their own bottled fragnance,

And, when our grandmother’s speak there is no other music that can match the level of their sweet essence.

Their laughter is the most beautiful song for the ears,

And their hug, people! Is the place where all the ailments get cured!

They’re the best dramatists putting Shakespeare to shame,

One will roll and yelp and scream and cry in laughter and pleasure happily exclaiming, “It is my grandmother who is to be blamed!”

Kitchen is their domain and they can turn into tigresses in there,

Pampering everyone with their hearty meals an extra care!

Their wrinkles showcase how gracefully they’ve aged,

Oh, God! How can their uncanny-sixth-sense tell them how to catch a lie! I’m amazed!

And my friends! If you don’t find a solution to your problems,

Bury yourself into their arms and within a jiffy , an unexpected smile will adorn your face to say-  Thank you god! for creating a mystique creature called-GRANDMOTHER!

An ode to womanhood, to strength, to vigour

Ah! Yes! That’s our grandmother, That’s our grandmother!

Dida, thanks for being the best!:)

So homo-sapiens have self-control, eh?

I am still processing one thing in my head, the same topic which has unanswerable questions to it, about which everyone has different philosophies different dimensions, and that is RAPE.

In yesterday's psychology class, we were being taught about self-control. My teacher made a statement saying that- "one thing that separates us from animals is, the control we have over ourselves, we don't pounce upon a person who doesn't appeal to us, we keep that disgusted look to ourselves, ignore the person and walk away. Whereas, the dog on the street would jump and dig his canine to anyone who he finds unappealing in any way" This statement made me ponder all night long. Do we? 

Brutal rape of a 5 year-old. My strength has weakened.

After the Nirbhaya incident, I THOUGHT ( how foolish I was!) that crime rates in Delhi would subsequently reduce. But then again, I was proved wrong. A yet another, gut-wrenching and heinous crime took place in our Capital. I honestly, don't know how to portray my disgust and anguish over the filthy low-lives that exist in our country. But a child? a baby? an innocent soul? has to be staked to fulfill the hunger of a pedophile. And the punishment he gets is getting hanged? REALLY? so easily? losing his life without a speck of pain, in just 5 minutes after inflicting the unimaginable pain he has given to a girl whose life had just begun. NO WAY! Satans like these should be left on the streets and be butchered by the girls of this nation. 

Atrocities everywhere- rapes, domestic violence, assaults, molestation,eve-teasing and a thousand more unthinkable terms are spreading like a wildfire. 

And we say we have self-control?

Parents of girl-child shudder to the thought of letting her go after the 'much-dreaded' 7 pm, be it the narrow-minded or the broad ones. It is us, we girls that have to undergo all these humiliations. There a varied theories about ' why these perverts, rape?' Some believe it as some sort of mental illness, some believe it is their way of showing superiority over the fairer-sex. I agree with the latter more. Just a few months ago I read out an incident about a man who has raped 17 women and is leading a happy married life. When questioned, his wife said that she couldn't in her widest dreams ever think her husband, even looking at some other woman. 

This just rings one bell, if they know how to differentiate, then why are these rapes committed?

To create dominance, seeing an independent, free-thinking, rule-breaking, society-uplifting woman scares the guts outta them. Living alone, on her own terms, catching the local train, enjoying her liberty, wearing- in what she feels comfortable, gives sadists like these electric shocks. They can't take it. So, to shun our power and a fear that we can outrun them any time of the day THEY give us pain, so that we stop. WE STOP! and they think we will? NO . NEVER.

And this thinking however doesn't only limit to the illiterates but also the 'so-called-educated' ones. 

I AM a feminist. And I am proud of it.

I say, why should we? WE WOMEN, WE GIRLS are the creators. Kick the male-chauvinist pigs in the groin and give them that powerpuff-girls mukka. It is our body, we can use it, flaunt it, the way we like. We will be the unstoppable force. We are the ones that have been worshiped by India for centuries as- Lakshmi, Durga and Parvati. Then why the hell should we take it? Protest, scream, yell, write do whatever you can to create ripples. Because it is the country's women whose lives are at stake.

WE are the creators. THE destroyers. THE powerhouses. And it is high time the men on this planet get it.

We will live on our terms. Embrace it or gulp it down it. Your pick!

p.s- Pardon me, if I crossed the line. But the time has come, when a revolution has to break.

Thanks for hearing me out.:)

Some Of My Favorite Things!

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things.

Can anything sound better than Julie Andrews voice? :p

Hi everyone! (Gee, I feel so delighted right now!) So people, let me tell you about- A Maggot Of My Myriad Musings, my thoughts and all things that keep on fluttering in my mind all the time.

Writing for me is like a dream. I can fly with it. It makes me happy, nostalgic, sad, cranky and go weak right in the knees. It makes me feel good about myself (the way Sridevi says so beautifully in English Vinglish). Sometimes I can just go on and on and well, there are times when I do face a massive ‘chicken-out’ attacks. But mostly there are some inconsequential thoughts that keep singing in my head all the time.  That’s what lead me to create this blog, so that these tiny little worms that reside in my head get a home and stay young forever. This is a small venture where I can share my views and dreams with the big wide world.  

I really cannot say what’s going to be there in this blog exactly. I am a totally disorganized person so that’s how my blog’s gonna be- totally haphazard, crazy, moody and nostalgic and I intend to keep it that way because too much perfection makes me nervous:) And there is this quote by Jimi Hendrix that I constantly keep blubbering to my friends-

“You have to go on and be crazy. Craziness is like heaven.”

                                                                     

That's it, that’s about all. Let’s see how my bloggy-baby turns out. Thanks for reading!

And also, I would feel absolutely awesome if you feel writing to me. Here’s my email id: rushikabanerji@gmail.com.